


the instructor is hot

by cosmickirk



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 12:11:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11554956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmickirk/pseuds/cosmickirk
Summary: Marvin is forced to do yoga, which he thinks is entirely bullshit, but consoles himself with the fact that the instructor looks like a goddamned Kennedy.the yoga instructor au that nobody asked for.





	1. meet not-so-cute

The whole yoga scheme is Mendel's idea, of course.

( _It'll keep you nice and limber... hah_ , he had joked in that self-conscious way that made everyone around him uncomfortable).

The therapist himself practices in Greenpoint twice a week, claims that it encourages something called mindfulness, that it puts everything into perspective and totally declutters your mind. Marvin is as skeptical of the idea as he is of Mendel in general, but he agrees, if only to appease the man's neurotic persistence.

He signs up for a Wednesday evening session at Mendel's studio in Brooklyn. Come the fated day, he stands dumbly in front of his sparse closet, wondering what in the hell you're supposed to wear to a goddamned yoga class. He decides on a grey t-shirt suitable only for painting walls, and red basketball shorts that haven't seen a basketball court in... longer than Marvin cares to calculate.

A little frumpy, maybe, but what does he care about what some hippie-dippie kids have to say about it? He minds the opinions of the people on the subway - the good, _normal_ people of New York - but swallows his pride, grabs his gym bag, and makes the trek to the stupid class, wondering the whole time if he'll be the oldest attendee and by how wide a margin. He tries to squash this train of thought over and over, reminding himself that he did _not_ care about what some twenty-two year old yuppies thought about him. What did they know about his life, huh? About life at all? And he realizes that he's arguing with nobody but himself just as the subway pulls into his stop.

The studio is sandwiched between a bakery and a McDonald's, which Marvin finds wildly ironic, and is housed in a modest gym. Nudging open the door, he pokes his head in to scope out the situation. The session won't start for a few more minutes but his fellow students are already preparing and, even worse,  _mingling._ Oh no. No, no, no. If they expect him to make small-talk, well, they've got another thing coming. 

He seeks a quiet spot to unroll his mat and pretend like he remembers how to stretch. Like he has any interest in stretching or any other part of this whole ordeal. He notices that the walls are covered from floor to ceiling in mirrors, and curses the yoga yuppies for making him confront his expanding gut at every angle. No! No. He doesn't care. He doesn't.

A door near the front of the room swings open and the lauded instructor walks - no, _struts_ \- in, a green smoothie (red-flag) in one hand, an Adidas gym bag in the other. The man looks like a wax figure of himself, shiny and well-kept, and Marvin hates him on principle instantly. 

"Hello, everybody!" he waves, beaming unnaturally brightly to the class. "Good to see so many familiar faces!" he exclaims, his voice climbing and descending a thousand octaves. "For anyone who's new here -" somehow Marvin is sure he's the only one. "I'm your instructor, Whizzer."

Marvin can't hold in a snort. Whizzer? Really? Was _Sage_ taken? All his suspicions about yoga and the people who partake in it are being confirmed before his very eyes. He's thinking about what he'll tell Mendel next week when he realizes that the entire class is silent and collectively staring at him. Whizzer The Instructor has gone still and looks at Marvin a little strangely, hands folded in front of him. 

"What's so funny back there?" he asks in a voice that strains his friendly tone.

Marvin goes cold. The very _last_ thing he needs is the judgment of this class. "Oh, nothing. Nothing. Sorry," he wonders just how pathetic he sounds to everyone else.

"Alright," Whizzer chuckles, without a hint of humour, and claps his hands together. "Well, I'd just like to remind everyone to keep a eye on their energy, okay? It affects the whole class," he gestures animatedly around the room. "Emit positivity, receive positivity, right?" The class murmurs in assent and Marvin swears he's crossed into some alternate, marijuana-addled universe. He registers another lull in the hum in the class.

"What's your name, man?" Whizzer The Instructor is looking at him again.

He crosses his arms and hopes to god it comes off confrontational. 

"Marvin," he replies without missing a beat. He won't let himself be cowed by some hippie asshole in spandex.

"Marvin. Good to meet you. Welcome to the circle."

"Welcome to the circle." the class repeats in choir-like unison.

The circle? Did Mendel get him to.join a goddamned cult?

"I hope you find our meetings... useful," the instructor smiles serenely, his tanned skin gleaming under the studio lights. He turns to the class at large. "Alright everybody!" he's back to his high-octane pep. "I hope you're all warmed up, I've got a pretty challenging session planned today."

Marvin groans to himself.

Fucking Mendel.

\+ + +

The class is brutal. Just, absolutely brutal. Whizzer The Instructor is inhumanly flexible and the whole class seems to know exactly what he's going to do before he knows it himself.

Marvin can't say he feels more mindful or less cluttered. In fact, the only discernible difference is that now he feels so shitty about himself that he changes his clothes in a bathroom stall instead of the locker room, and he admits to himself that maybe he cares. A little. 

On his way out he smiles politely to everybody, as unwilling to make enemies as he is to make friends. 

Outside on the pavement he takes a moment to breathe, which he supposes he should've done during the actual yoga session. It's warm, a nice May evening, and he delights in the soft light of summertime dusk, happy to be getting fresh air and even happier to be alone. 

He hears the crunch of a light step and looks up to see Whizzer the Goddamned Instructor coming towards him. He's dressed in a white t-shirt and dark grey sweatpants that he somehow pulls off. He's whistling, and seems enormously toned down. Marvin's grateful for a break from his incessant glee.

"Oh! Hey, there," Whizzer slows to a stop when he sees him, hands in his pockets. "Marvin, right?"

He nods.

"Good session?

Marvin manages to make his second nod so non-committal that it may as well have been a shrug.

Whizzer laughs aloud. "Man of few words, huh? Alright," he grabs the water bottle from his bag, then continues though Marvin asked him nothing. "I don't really, like, talk like that, you know?" he gestures back to the studio. "All chakras and kumbaya or whatever."

"That's a shame," Marvin replies. "You're very inspirational. That pose to harness your Inner Power? It brought me this close to tears." 

"Oh god," Whizzer groans. "I hope it wasn't too awful."

A twinge of guilt. Just a twinge. Because this Whizzer seems down-to-earth when he's not doing an energizer bunny impression. "Did I look like I hated it that much?"

"No," Whizzer replies. "Well, not the whole time, at least. But when you teach these classes for a while you can tell who wants to be here and who doesn't."

"Yeah," Marvin is sheepish and can't understand why. "I guess you do," he adds uselessly.

Whizzer watches Marvin watch his feet and smiles. "What brings you here, anyway?"

"Uh," Marvin hesitates, having what Mendel would call an intrusive thought about Whizzer's arms, then decides to be forthright: "My psychiatrist says it's good for you," and he squashes his straying thoughts yet again.

"Your psychiatrist?"

"Yeah. He's a... a non-traditional guy."

Whizzer chuckles, "Sure." He observes Marvin carefully, scratches the back of his neck, then readjusts the strap of his gym bag. "Well, I guess I'll get going," he gestures down the street, the opposite way Marvin is headed.

"Oh, yeah! Yeah, yeah, yeah. For sure." Marvin hears his own sputtering and kicks himself. "Me too."

"Right," he extends a hand. "It was good to meet you, Marvin..." 

"Cohen," he grasps Whizzer's hand just a touch too eagerly.

"Marvin Cohen," the guy seems fascinated by the name, and Marvin realizes that he's standing quite close. And that he smells nice. Earthy. Not at all like sweat, which makes Marvin more self-conscious than anything.

"Well," his hand is warm and Marvin is acutely aware of its pressure against his own, its unexpected firmness. "I hope we see you again, Marvin Cohen," he smiles broadly and finally breaks the handshake, sticking his hands back into his pockets.

Marvin smiles to hide the fact that Whizzer The Instructor (just Whizzer, perhaps) has thoroughly thrown him off.

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe." 

A moment of silence follows in which Marvin, unsure of how to exit, is able to hear his own breath. It's on the verge of awkwardness that Whizzer takes pity on him. "Good night, man," he chuckles, turning on his heel and shooting Marvin a friendly wave. 

"Night," he replies, too late. He watches the man saunter off, noting the fine tautness of his torso and the oddly graceful movements that carry him around the corner and out of sight, at which point Marvin remembers that he has a train to catch. 

The train is largely empty, and air-conditioned, which he's grateful for given that he feels a fever coming on. It takes a total of forty-five minutes to get home, the train carrying its passengers safely from Greenpoint across the river all the way to TriBeCa.

And by the end of it all, Marvin has a whole new set of thoughts to squash.


	2. looking good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> marvin sucks at yoga & is insecure
> 
> on brand

Marvin watches the evening approach with a vague sense of dread. It’s Wednesday, and work passes in a wild blur of smudged faxes, watered-down coffee, and temps more interested in making eyes at each other than making copies for their bosses. He tries to find something to keep him back, maybe a pissy client, or an unresolved transaction. He would settle for a clerical error at this point, but ends up punching out promptly at five. The receptionist, Laurie, gives him a cheery wave that feels oddly like a wartime send-off, and the Greenpoint studio starts to coalesce into an inevitability.

Of course, the MTA decides that _today_ is the day it finally gets its shit together, gliding along without so much as a suicide to slow them down. Then suddenly it's five-thirty and Marvin finds himself in a staring contest with his untouched yoga mat. He is ready to phone it in, order Chinese, and watch home makeovers until he falls asleep in a pool of his own saliva, when he hears Mendel's voice in the back of his head. He can imagine, with absurd clarity, the psychiatrist reciting each benefit of practicing yoga regularly. The precise intonation he would use to admonish Marvin for not trying new things, for quitting easily, for recoiling as soon as something veers out of his control. He sighs. The last thing he needs today (or any day) is a lecture from the man he's half-sure is courting his wife. 

 _Ex_ -wife, he reminds himself, suppressing the strange wistfulness that rises at the thought. In a belated twist of irony, he misses those old rhythms and comforts. Leaving for work before Trina woke, her soft body sprawled in their shared, always warm bed. Coming home to the smell of her cooking, of casseroles, of matzoh, of Friday evening pot roasts (they tried eating kosher for a while, but it ended up being the first of many things they mutually gave up). Each night, ending up back in the same place they began. He looks around his nondescript apartment. The black leather couch pushed up against a barren wall. The small fridge, the untouched stove. The absolute absence of photographs. 

A younger version of himself would say the place needed a woman’s touch.

But he stops this train of thought before it derails entirely. He’s becoming quite adept at that. What was it that Mendel said? It’s not helpful to berate himself for slipping into nostalgia. To pretend that he didn’t love Trina in some capacity, or that this transition should be _easy._

Then, another voice. Smooth and remarkably self-assured.

_I hope we see you again, Marvin Cohen._

And, really, the decision is already made. With a long-suffering groan (the one facet of Judaism he will never give up) Marvin grabs his mat, pulls on his wristbands, and drags his ass across the river.

To Greenpoint. To yoga. To that stupid goddamned instructor.

\+ + +

 

A few of the patrons wave at him as he walks in and a younger guy, Michael, he thinks, even ventures so far as to give him a friendly _hello,_ which Marvin reciprocates with the barest civility allowed in this strange spandexed yoga universe.

He would say his physical performance is a monumental improvement over last week’s. The objective onlooker would say he’s approximately one percent more flexible and just as painful to watch.

Whizzer stands at the front of the class, guiding everyone’s breathing and outlining each new position with trained assurance. He’s wearing a white tank top and a pair of black yoga pants that cling to his legs in a way that is bordering on obscene and, quite frankly, _not_ conducive to Marvin’s learning whatsoever. He’s admitted by this point that the instructor is hot. Polished and toned and Kennedy-esque with his un-mussable coif and sharp jaw. The loose tank top allows a generous view of his shoulders, which makes his poses especially hard to follow.

 _C’mon Marv,_ he chides himself. _You’re not a horny teenager. Get it together._

Which is true. Even if his post-coming-out romps have been sparse and less than scandalous, he’s far from a frustrated closet case. He can be in the same room as a decently attractive, ostensibly straight man and not lose his cool.

Just so long as, in those pants, Whizzer doesn’t turn sideways—

" _Now_ ," the man says serenely, and Marvin is glad for the interruption. "Everyone put your arms together, like this." He demonstrates. The class follows. Marvin swears he feels his left shoulder pop. "Very nice, everybody,” Whizzer smiles, and Marvin is sure he’s not included in ‘everybody’.

Presently, he’s obscured to the instructor by a blonde NYU student. He wishes he didn’t know that she’s named Sarah, and that she studies urban planning, and has a boyfriend who’s being _super_ _weird_ right now. But such are the hippies: loud, talkative, convinced that a degree in urban planning will lead to anything other than homelessness. (Oh, the irony!) On principle, he doesn’t eavesdrop, but absorbs their gossip via osmosis, and on multiples occasions he’s had to bite his tongue to keep from interjecting a _he’s just not into you, sister_ or similarly unwelcome reality check.

He glances at the clock above Whizzer’s head. Oh, god. Thirty more minutes of this bizarre, disdainful horniness. The most conflicted half-boner he’s ever had.

Whizzer, meanwhile, has relayed more instructions, and the students have simultaneously folded themselves into origami cranes. Marvin closes his eyes, repressing a groan, and tries to even out his breathing as he balances on one leg, mimicking this convoluted pose.

Later, they move into a sitting position, which Marvin thanks his stars for, and contort themselves into some vaguely pretzel-like shape. Whizzer roams the class, assessing the students' postures.

"Looking good, everybody,” he says, genuine pleasure softening his face. "Jenny, excellent form." He winks at a thin redhead and drags a hand along her exposed shoulder. She lifts her head a little and smiles up at him. Marvin looks away. 

The instructor continues up and down the rows, correcting postures here and there but mostly heaping praise onto his pupils, until arriving finally at Marvin, tucked away in a far corner of the room. 

"Uh, Marvin," he begins, and his tone immediately gives away his intent. It’s the same tone girls use to reiterate that it’s not _you,_ it’s _me_. “You had a good start, but -" Whizzer tilts his head. "Your hips are _way_ too tight."

"Uh huh," Marvin says, conscious of each individual bead of sweat on his neck, the curls which stick to his forehead. He drops his pose, sitting back on his haunches and staring straight up at Whizzer. He doesn't know what possesses him to do anything but nod and hum in agreement. Maybe it's just the heat, or these stupid twenty-year-olds and the infinite time they have, but Marvin narrows his eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly under his ratty grey t-shirt. “And what do you suggest I do about that?” he says, in a voice as combative as it is ragged.

A puzzled look twists the instructor’s face. Distantly, Marvin registers that the class has hushed, and he wonders if that’ll be a weekly occurrence, their collective shock at his asshole-ish tendencies. Whizzer is quiet for a moment, shakes his head, and walks on.

 

\+ + +

 

The other students flatly ignore him as they stream to the changing rooms. He’s not surprised, but irked by it nonetheless. Leave it to Marvin to rebuff kindness until it’s taken away. To realize only then what he’s been taking for granted.

He changes quickly, slipping on his khakis and old maroon hoodie without making eye contact with the other men.

He intends to slip out quietly, without incident, but apparently none of his plans are meant to fall into place today, because when he leaves the changing room he finds Whizzer standing by the exit, zipping up his duffel. When he sees Marvin, his neutral expression slips into cool judgement, and Marvin braces himself, padding slower than necessary across the tiled lobby. He nods curtly, keeping his voice light as he bids Whizzer a good night.

The instructor doesn’t return the pleasantry, instead crossing his arms and sizing Marvin up. 

“You know,” he says, forcing Marvin to turn and face him. “Nobody’s forcing you to come here.”

Surprised, Marvin laughs a little. “I’m sorry?”

“I try to make this class enjoyable for everybody, alright? If you don’t appreciate that, you really don’t have to keep coming,” he says firmly. “I’m sure we have a kick-boxing class that’s more suited to your… personality.”

Marvin shakes his head, not in the mood for yoga-class politics, and makes to leave.

“No, seriously,” Whizzer presses, sidestepping to block Marvin’s path. “Are you contractually obligated to ruin my class?”

They’re standing too close together for Marvin’s mental faculties to be operating at full efficiency. He notices that Whizzer's eyes are a very specific shade of brown, like a beam of light passing a glass of brandy. He swallows dryly. “My psychiatrist –”

“Oh, _this_ again,” Whizzer almost laughs. “Is your psychiatrist a goddamn mob boss?”

Pushing aside the ludicrous idea of Mendel leading a gang, Marvin feels his flimsy pretense collapses beneath him. Now he’s thinking less about fighting back (unheard of) and more about what Whizzer’s slightly unkempt hair would look like properly tousled. He shrugs tightly, not trusting himself with full sentences.

“Look,” Whizzer sighs. Taking pity, again, perhaps. “If you’re worried about being new at this, or whatever -.”

“I’m not – ”

“Save it,” Whizzer interrupts. “Jesus, I can _smell_ how insecure you are, but you have no reason to be, alright” he pauses, his eyes glancing sidelong before he tacks on absently. “And, besides, you looked good today.”

Marvin’s jaw almost drops at his bluntness, before he shakes himself into reason.

_The yoga, moron. He means the yoga._

“You’re full of shit," Marvin says.

“Maybe,” Whizzer shrugs. “But that’s what they pay me for.”

Marvin laughs, until he remembers himself. Remembers Whizzer, and who each of them are. He takes half a step back, and clears his throat. “I’m sorry,” he says, and the words feel strange in his mouth, but he likes the way they make Whizzer’s features soften, if only marginally. He’s feeling uncharacteristically cutesy, and sticks out a hand.

“Fresh start?”

Whizzer cracks a smile and takes it. His eyes crinkle at the corners and Marvin wonders how someone so young has already developed smile lines.

“I’m Whizzer,” he introduces himself lightly. “The instructor.”

“Whizzer? What a unique and not at all ridiculous name," Marvin ignores the lightheadedness creeping up on him and continues: "What do you instruct, Whizzer?”

“Yoga.”

“Yoga,” Marvin repeats, nodding like it's some great discovery. “I have a completely open mind about yoga and don’t think it’s a crock of shit whatsoever.”

“Wow, what a positive and non-judgmental thing to say!” Whizzer replies, dropping his hand and suppressing a laugh. “What’s your name?”

“Marvin,” he replies, tilting his head and squinting against the setting sun as it filters in through the long glass windows.

Whizzer nods, as if mulling it over. “Huh. What a common and not at all boring name.”

“Thank you.”

“We have classes every Wednesday, at six-thirty sharp, Marvin,” he says evenly, and shuffles as if ready to head out. “You should stop by sometime.”

He nods, and makes no move to leave. He looks up into Whizzer's sunlight-and-brandy eyes. “I think I will,” Marvin says, and he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol it's been like forty years since the first chapter do any of yall remember this?? no?? cool
> 
> marvin still dealing with the desire to have a heterosexual marriage? more likely than you think
> 
> thank you all for reading! i love you guys!

**Author's Note:**

> stay tuned to see marvin completely suck ass at yoga
> 
> thank you for reading this completely self-indulgent nonsense i love u all i love falsettos i love marvin and whizzer good night


End file.
